


Survivor

by jellybeanforest



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bruce Banner Is Not That Kind Of Doctor, Early 20th Century Medicine, Established Relationship, Flu, M/M, PTSD, Remix, Sick Tony Stark, Sickfic, Steve Rogers Backstory, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, traumatized Steve Rogers, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22767766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: “The problem with surviving was that you ended up with the ghosts of everyone you’d ever left behind riding on your shoulders.”  -Paolo Bacigalupi, The Drowned CitiesIn 1918, Steve’s father, Joseph Rogers, dies of the Spanish flu while serving in WWI.In 1936, Steve’s mother, Sarah Rogers, dies of tuberculosis while confined to a sanatorium after contracting the disease from her job as a nurse in a TB ward.In 2014, Steve’s boyfriend, Tony Stark, contracts the flu and quarantines himself in their room, refusing to be seen until he’s presentable and not a contagious, feverish snot-monster. Steve is worried but understanding as he tries to allay his own fears about Tony’s condition. It’s the future, after all. Modern medicine has made many advances in disease management. But then on a video call with Cap, stuffed up and miserable, Tony rather dramatically declares he’s on death’s doorstep.Needless to say, Steve Rogers, the unflappable Captain America, loses his shit.Remix of “(rest assured, baby) you’re adored” by sheron. For the 2020 Cap-IronMan Remix Madness.
Relationships: Sarah Rogers & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 43
Kudos: 420
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Remix Madness





	Survivor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/gifts).
  * Inspired by [(rest assured, baby) you're adored](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22251820) by [sheron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/pseuds/sheron). 
  * In response to a prompt by [sheron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheron/pseuds/sheron) in the [2020_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2020_Cap_Ironman_Remix_Madness) collection. 



> Tuberculosis or TB (which is an infectious disease caused by a bacterium) was originally believed to be a genetic defect present in minorities and the poor, and patients and their families were a target for eugenics in the years leading up to and including WWII (despite medical science at the time recognizing it as an infection rather than hereditary). Although TB vaccination with BCG was available starting in 1921, it was generally given only to infants (and didn’t confer total immunity, being ~50% effective) because it was largely ineffective in adults. Confinement in sanatoriums for tuberculosis was common in the early part of the twentieth century with the standard treatment being “fresh air.” With the discovery of antibiotics in 1943, tuberculosis could be cured, and many tuberculosis sanatoriums were closed by the mid-fifties.
> 
> About a third of the world population has TB, but most are latent and asymptomatic their whole lives. In some people (especially those with a weakened immune system due to HIV/AIDS, diabetes, kidney disease, cancer, organ transplant, or malnourishment), TB becomes active and without treatment will swiss-cheese the organs it invades (typically the lungs but could include the spine, kidney, lymph nodes and brain membranes). Without treatment (antibiotics), about a third of people with active TB will die in two years, and another third within five. We’re slowly returning to pre-antibiotic era with the rise of antibiotic resistance, but that’s another matter. The symptoms of tuberculosis are fever, chills, night sweats, loss of appetite, weight loss, and fatigue.
> 
> In the MCU, Sarah Rogers was a nurse in a TB unit, contracted the disease, and died when Steve was 18. She likely had diabetes or heart disease because Steve’s medical record notes “Parent/sibling with diabetes, cancer, stroke, or heart disease,” and those conditions would have prevented his father from serving in WWI, and Steve didn’t have siblings. She may have spent her last years in a TB ward or sanatorium as well, secluding herself from Steve. I imagine she didn’t want to expose her medically-frail son to TB (though with it being contagious, she may have given him a latent infection by simply coughing around him; this was of course cleared up by the serum), so she might have left when she started to show symptoms. 
> 
> In the MCU, Joseph Rogers dies shortly after Steve’s birth in 1918 fighting in WWI. In Marvel-616, he dies of the flu in 1926. So I combined both causes of death in this fic: he dies of the Spanish flu in late 1918 while fighting in WWI. For those who do not know, the Spanish flu of 1918-1920 killed 17-50 million people worldwide or as high as 100 million, which was as much as 5.6% of Earth’s population at the time. It was an unusually dangerous strain of flu for young adults (age 20-40), and with how much death it wrought, it decreased the average American lifespan by about 10-12 years. 
> 
> All this is to say that Steve is freaked out when Tony falls ill with the flu and attempts to sequester himself.

**Spring 1935**

Sarah Rogers had been coughing for weeks when her handkerchief came away tinged with blood. She stares at the cloth stained pinkish-red, and knows with a fair amount of certainty that she is dying.

“Do you want me to make you some tea with honey for that cough?” Steve calls out from the kitchen, having already put on the kettle and dropped a quarter into their pay-as-you-go gas meter. “It’s sounding something awful this morning.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Stevie,” she tells him, standing in the far corner of her room to gaze out the sole window of the apartment into the alleyway. “Just hurry along to school now. You’re gonna be late lollygagging as you do.”

Sarah does the calculations, a grim sort of calculus of transmission and death in her head. Her Stevie is sickly; surely if he had caught anything, it would have shown immediately, but he is the same as ever: asthmatic and wheezy with a weak heart but otherwise fine. No persistent cough, no fever, no unusual fatigue… As a nurse in the tuberculosis ward, Sarah had been careful to change and wash up before going home to her medically-frail son. She wore masks at work and covered her coughs at home, and always made sure Steve scrubbed up before eating or touching his face. In their small three-room tenement apartment, she and Steve slept separately, with his room closer to the front door and hers deeper in the back, the kitchen lodged between them.

She hopes it is enough.

* * *

“Stevie, I want you to listen carefully, okay?” she tells him later through the locked door after phoning the Barnes household. “I’ve made arrangements with Bucky’s parents. You’re going to stay with the Barneses for a spell. They’re willing to take you in for a while yet. So you be good, and help Mrs. Barnes with the washing up, you hear?”

“I don’t understand. Why is the door locked?” Steve tries twisting the knob, but it remains stubbornly closed, Sarah having jammed a chair under the handle to keep Steve out. “Mom?”

“…I’m sick, Stevie,” she finally admits, her voice breaking. “You can’t come in right now, but maybe in a couple weeks… after I’ve checked myself into the tuberculosis ward, you can come back.”

Steve stops, his hand stilling on the knob. He has forgotten how to breathe. His mother had warned him this might happen, but it had always seemed impossible, like a contingency plan they didn’t need. Unlike Steve, Sarah Rogers had been relatively healthy (excepting her diabetes) or at least not so obviously unwell as her son.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but it’s for the best. I can’t infect you, too. It would break my heart.”

It has already broken Steve’s.

“But… No, you’re going to get better. You have to get better,” Steve pleads. “Right?”

 _One in three chance for long-term survival,_ Sarah knows, but she doesn’t like those odds enough to promise her son anything. The best she can hope for is abatement of any symptoms, for the condition to go dormant for a spell, so she can come home.

“Go, Stevie. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

* * *

After a couple weeks, Steve does return to their apartment despite the Barnes’ offer that he stay with them a bit longer. Bucky himself had complained he had gotten used to Steve’s presence, and the nights would be cold without him sleeping over. But Steve can’t stay any longer, so he thanks his hosts and returns next door to his home where he promptly cleans the apartment, dusting all surfaces, sweeping up, and making the beds in preparation for his mother’s imminent return. Because she is coming home.

She has to.

* * *

Bucky is the only one that comes over anymore. Whispers follow Steve everywhere he goes now.

_Did you hear about Sarah?_

_Shame about her son._

_It’s not surprising. The Irish are of inferior stock._

_There’s her boy now. Look at how sickly he is._

_It’s in the blood, and the blood always tells. The boy won’t see thirty._

“Don’t listen to them, Steve. They’re all idiots. The lot of them,” Bucky had said, giving dirty looks to the neighbors who mentioned such things within earshot. “You have nothing to prove," quickly followed up by, "Now, I’ve got us a couple dates for tonight. We’re taking the girls dancing.”

“Again, Bucky?” Sometimes, Steve wishes the man would just stop and let him be. He knows he’s just trying to help, but Steve is so tired of being rejected on first sight.

“Come on, you should get out there. Have some fun.”

He knows what Bucky is doing. He’s just trying to distract him, to give him something to look forward to other than his weekly visits to the TB ward to visit his mother. He dons a mask at her request and never ever touches her, also at her request.

“It’s too dangerous, Stevie,” she tells him through a wheeze.

The doctors give her plenty of fresh air, but they can’t afford the truly nice facilities, the ones down in Arizona or California where the air is warmer and at elevations conducive to the treatment of her condition. And so it happens that a year later, Sarah Rogers, dangerously thin, wheezy, and fatigued, finally succumbs to tuberculosis. In her last weeks, Steve watches her deteriorate until she is nearly unrecognizable from the fierce Irish woman she once was. The illness had taken everything from her, sapped her strength and her body mass until she was waifish and frail.

Steve feels unaccountably guilty, as if he could have done something had he been here full-time. He knows it’s illogical, that everything that could be done had already been done, but that reality doesn’t ameliorate his feelings.

Steve buries his mother but not his regret.

“How was it?” Bucky asks in the aftermath, having caught up with him after the funeral.

“It was okay. She’s next to Dad,” Steve says. And maybe one day (probably sooner rather than later), he’ll join them both.

* * *

**Fall 2014**

It had started with an ache. Tony had woken up unusually tired with a dull pain in his muscles and joints, which was not entirely out of the norm. He was 44 and an Avenger. With the hours he kept, it happened from time to time. Tony would go to bed wrong, wake up with a weird pain, then complain loudly and vociferously to anyone nearby (usually Steve) about his body’s betrayal. First, he had to cut out dairy and fried foods, and now this? What the hell? He slept on the wrong side, and now he can’t turn his head all the way to the left? Aging is such bullshit. Steve would just chuckle, run his hands over the ripples in Tony’s stomach (which had softened slightly with age), kiss the top of his head (just starting to pepper with grey), and tell him how lucky he is to have such an amazingly intelligent, endlessly kind, downright _attractive_ boyfriend. Tony would grumble about the uselessness of flattery but damned if he didn’t have a spring in his step the rest of the morning.

That is the usual way of things anyway.

But by mid-morning, the tickle in his throat had worsened to scratchiness, and his body seemed to run warmer than usual, almost as hot as Steve himself. A quick diagnostic from J.A.R.V.I.S. confirms Steve’s worse fears: Tony had contracted the flu.

“Don’t come in here, Steve. I’m not decent,” Tony says through the comms after he had sequestered himself in their room to ride out his illness.

Steve tries the door anyway, finding it locked.

“Sir has sequestered himself in the master bedroom,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informs him. “He has requested that the guest room down the hall be readied for your temporary stay.”

“But–”

“No buts,” Tony’s voice filters in through the comms. “I’m highly-contagious right now. I’m dripping unsavory body fluids everywhere, and… and it’s not pretty.”

“I don’t mind. I can’t get sick, not anymore.”

_Let-me-in-let-me-in-let-me-in._

But Tony is not having it. “I’m snotty and disgusting, not sexy or presentable in the slightest,” he says, adding rather dramatically, “I’m just gross, and I don’t want you to see me like this, Cap. It’ll be a permanent turn-off, and I’d like to have sex again someday, you know.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I don’t care what you look like. No one looks great while sick. Just… let me help you.”

_Stay calm._

“Got all I need in here already. Seriously, I’m good. I’ll see you after my fever breaks. It’s only a few days–” but Tony cuts off as the coughing overtakes him. The familiar sound is like ice water poured down Steve’s back. “And I’ll be right as rain,” he finishes on a croak, clearing his throat of mucus.

* * *

The night brings no sleep for Steve. With his enhanced hearing, he can just about hear Tony coughing from the adjacent room despite the soundproofing (the floor-to-ceiling windows had made complete soundproofing an impossibility, but Tony did his best). It reminds Steve of his mother’s persistent cough in the weeks leading up to her confinement to the tuberculosis ward, before the consumption took her from him altogether.

What Steve needs is a medical opinion from a real doctor – not Tony’s amateur, completely biased assertion that he is invincible – to allay his fears, to confirm that his boyfriend will pull through just fine. He tells himself that such assurances will in any way impact the abject terror that had settled into his gut and curled around his heart.

(In other words, he lies to himself.)

And so, in the morning, Steve tracks down their live-in doctor.

“Bruce, you’re a doctor, right? Will Tony be okay?” he asks, emotionally bracing himself for a potentially negative answer.

Bruce cants his head to the side in consideration. “I’m no psychiatrist, but maybe with extensive cognitive behavioral therapy–”

“He has the flu.”

“Oh, well… still not that kind of doctor,” but Bruce can see how obviously concerned Steve is, so he tries to assure him, “But you know, Tony is relatively young, and he has no chronic illnesses. He’ll be fine.”

“The flu sometimes takes people in their prime.” Steve knows from experience.

“That’s very rare, but there’s really nothing that can be done at this stage. There might be some medications that can reduce his fever or alleviate some of his symptoms, but the flu is a virus, which means Tony will just have to wait it out.”

Steve pauses, dread rising up like bile in the back of his throat. “Isn’t there anything more that can be done?”

Modern medicine has failed him, failed Tony. He can’t believe it; one of (if not the) largest epidemics in modern history, and no one remembers it, much less bothered to find a cure?

“Tamiflu maybe, but he would have had to take it within 48 hours, and he’s stubborn about what he considers pointless medical interventions. Really, prevention is the best medicine. He should just get his annual flu shot going forward. It’s not 100%, but even if the WHO picks the wrong strain to source the vaccine for that season, it should still reduce the chance of major complications.”

“That doesn’t help him now, though,” Steve insists. He needs an actionable plan of attack if Tony is to survive.

But to Steve’s consternation, Bruce remains blasé about the mounting emergency. “I suppose not. Don’t worry, Steve. It’s just the flu. He’ll be up and causing trouble in a week or so.”

_Or dead._

Steve’s father had been hale and hearty when he had enlisted for WWI, leaving behind a pregnant wife and unborn son, and in the end, it hadn’t been a bullet nor mustard gas in the trenches which felled him but the Spanish flu that had torn through his battalion in the closing months of the war.

Bruce scrolls through his StarkPhone. “If he develops difficulty breathing, chest or stomach pain, severe vomiting, or is suddenly dizzy or confused, then take him to the hospital,” he reads aloud. “Or unusually high fever… wait; that last one’s only for children and pregnant women, and Tony is neither of those things.”

Steve will have to keep a close eye on the developing situation, though with Tony refusing him entrance into their bedroom, monitoring his health will be significantly more difficult.

But not impossible.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., can you patch me through to Tony?” Steve asks the resident A.I. while he sits alone in the guest room, worrying and helpless.

“Sir has disabled video, but audio is acceptable at this time,” comes the reply.

It will have to do.

“Hey Cap,” Tony picks up, right before a sustained hacking cough takes his speech entirely.

 _Don’t freak him out,_ Steve repeats to himself, like a mantra. _Don’t freak out._

“Just… I don’t know. I just wanted to check on you. Can I see you?”

“That’s a negatory. Not good company right now. Still feel like shit,” he rasps. “Look like shit, too.”

“Please, Tony.”

But Tony isn’t having it. “Look, just… Let me die in peace, okay?” he says, moderately exasperated.

_Tony said the D-word._

**_Tony never says the D-word._ **

According to Pepper, Tony had spent months hiding his impending death from palladium poisoning. Even now, Steve knows he struggles with PTSD from Afghanistan, from the Chitauri attack, but he fails to address it in any meaningful way. For someone like Tony to admit death is a possibility, it must be bad. Catastrophic even. There’s only one logical explanation: Tony Stark, his wonderful, beautiful boyfriend, light of his life, is dying.

The sound that squeezes itself out from the depths of Steve is like none he's ever made before, like that of a wounded animal.

“Cap? Steve?” Tony queries.

But Steve is already out the door and standing in front of their bedroom, brandishing his shield. “Let me in, Tony. Right now,” he calls out, pounding on the door with his fist. When it doesn’t immediately yield, he lifts his shield.

“Whoa! Steve, stop!”

“Let me in!” He brings it down on the lock, snapping it like a dry twig in one hit, then throwing open the door and advancing towards the bed. Tony scrambles back, his eyes wide, hair greasy, and skin pallid.

Amidst Tony’s protests, Steve bundles him up in their comforter to prevent him from thrashing, then picks him up bridal style, preparing to carry him to the elevator himself.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., call the chopper. Tony is going to the hospital. Now.”

“Don’t you dare, J.,” Tony orders. “Put me down, Steve! I’m serious!” He struggles, trying to extract himself from the cocoon Steve had encased him in.

But Steve holds on to his wriggling boyfriend, trying to still him, to calm him down for transport. “I’m not letting you die!”

“I’m not dying! It was a joke! I’m a drama queen,” Tony protests. “You know this. Jesus Christ!”

Steve freezes, then gently places him back down on the bed. “Don’t scare me like that. I’m getting you a doctor. It's nonnegotiable so don’t argue with me on this,” he says, his voice firm, brooking no argument.

“Why are you like this? It’s just the flu!”

“My father died of the flu!” Steve shouts. Tony finally still, and Steve drops his voice as he struggles to explain, “And mom… she shut me out when she was dying because she wanted to protect me. I was too weak and too sick to help her, and– and I’m not losing you, too. I can’t,” he says, his tone desperate and pleading. “I’m immune now; I can’t get sick anymore, so please don’t shut me out. Please, Tony.”

Tony looks poleaxed, not really knowing what to say, but he finally manages to rasp: “Steve, I’m not dying.” He is less than convincing with his voice so hoarse and crackly. It also doesn’t help that he looks like death warmed over.

“Will you at least see a doctor? Please? For me?”

“…Alright,” he acquiesces. “And you can stay here, if it will make you feel better. I can’t promise I won’t leak all over you. In fact, I can guarantee the opposite.”

“I don’t mind, Tony. I can take care of you,” Steve says, the desperation melting away from his voice now that Tony is amenable to his continued presence. “Would you maybe like some soup or a Tylenol or something for your fever and muscle pain?”

“…Some chicken soup might be nice.” It’s a task to keep Steve busy, so he won’t mother-hen Tony too much.

“Okay, I’ll get on that and send for a doctor.”

* * *

Tony is not the tiniest bit surprised when Dr. Bruce Banner enters wearing a bright yellow head-to-toe hazmat suit, a filtering apparatus fitted over his mouth to prevent viral transmission.

“Hey Bruce… I’d say I’m offended, but I _am_ plague-stricken, so…”

“You’re not plague-stricken, but Steve insists I be 100% protected, so I don’t infect any of my other patients,” the man explains, his voice sounding much beleaguered and weary, even filtered through the ventilation system of the suit. “He does realize I’m not that kind of doctor, right? I tried to tell him three or four times, but–”

“The poor man is under a lot of stress. Humor him for me, won’t you? He’s going through a… a thing, I guess, and taking care of me helps him feel in control. It’s a process, alright?” Tony sits up, feeling achy and miserable. “So, how long have I got, doc?”

Bruce gives off a long suffering sigh. “It is my completely non-professional opinion – because once again, this is not my area of expertise nor have I been trained for this in any capacity – that you’ll live. This time.”

“You sure you don’t need to conduct a prostate exam to know for certain?” He laughs, and the exertion hurts his chest a touch.

“…Maybe we should send you to the hospital. You’re obviously confused and disoriented,” Bruce deadpans, completely unamused. “Tell me: how many fingers am I holding up?” He flips Tony the bird.

“Seventeen.”

“Really?”

“No, you jerk,” Tony falls back into his voluminous pile of pillows and stares at the ceiling. “Can you just do me a favor and tell the warden I’ll live so he’ll stop hounding me to death?” he asks, waving his hand to dismiss his not-an-actual-medical-professional friend.

But Bruce doesn’t budge. “And you think that’s going to work.” He sounds skeptical.

“It’s worth a shot.”

“Speaking of shots, you know what’s going to happen every flu season from now on? Captain America will personally oversee your annual vaccination,” he informs Tony before adding, “He thinks if left to your own devices, you’ll neglect your health. I can’t imagine why.”

“I hate needles,” _especially ones he personally deems unnecessary._

“And Steve hates seeing you sick. Guess which one’s going to win that argument?”

Tony considers it. It’s true he doesn’t like worrying Steve, especially now that he is aware of his fairly severe loss-related medical trauma. “New plan: I band together a couple dozen premier virologists to eradicate the flu altogether,” he declares. “J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“Yes sir.”

“Cure for the flu. Add it to the list. Near the top.” He then looks down his nose at Bruce and offers magnanimously, “I’d like you to be the first to join me, Dr. Banner.”

“For the last time: not that kind of doctor.”

* * *

When Steve comes in later, bearing gifts of soup, tea, and an entire pharmacy of items to alleviate his various flu symptoms, Tony would be lying if he didn’t say he was a little grateful.

“Do you want me to read to you, honey?” Steve says softly, rubbing his achy back, and damn does that feel good.

“Alright.” _Anything to soothe the man’s nerves._

“Any preferences?” Steve looks through his bookshelf, lightly caressing the spines. “Tolkien? Oh, Watership Down. You’d like that, wouldn't you?”

“I saw the movie version as a kid. Scared the hell out of me,” Tony mutters. “So yeah, that sounds perfect.”

Steve takes the book down, then returns, folding back their sheets to settle in next to Tony. He holds the back of his hand to Tony’s forehead to briefly check his temperature. Tony still feels so warm, even as he shivers, so Steve repositions him against his side, Tony’s head cradled to Steve’s chest.

Tony’s eyes drift close. “You’re so warm,” he says, enveloped in Steve’s embrace. He cracks open an eye. “Are you really going to read me a bedtime story?”

“Yeah? Unless you’d rather watch a program before bed,” he offers . “Would you prefer that?”

“No, it’s okay. I like your voice,” Tony murmurs, yawning a bit until his jaw clicks. He rubs it at the corners. The flu really is the worst.

And so, Steve thumbs open the book to the first page and begins to read aloud, his voice low and soothing. He doesn’t stop until Tony is snoring nasally, his mouth open and drooling onto Steve.

So he closes the book, kisses the top of Tony’s head, and slowly slides down into a prone position, careful not to wake the man as J.A.R.V.I.S. dims the lights.

In a few days, Tony’s fever will break, and he will recover, but for now, Steve holds his wheezing, feverish boyfriend and listens to his heartbeat, strong and sure between them.

**Author's Note:**

> I went to the Tenement Museum in NYC over the holidays and took the tour showing what a tenement apartment would have looked like during the Great Depression. The apartment was three rooms: It opened to a kitchen and on the right was a small bedroom that could fit maybe a twin bed and a trunk and then through the kitchen on the opposite side of the apartment was either a living room or a master bedroom (or both, depending on the time of day). The toilet was shared for the floor (with around four other families). There was a pay-as-you-go gas meter in each apartment that you could drop coins into, and a sink/bathtub combo thing in the kitchen that also had a wood plank go over it to double as a kitchen counterspace.


End file.
